Monday, February 19, 2007
The Man Is A Parrothead
I was listening yesterday to some of my favorite trop rock tunes when St. Somewhere's "Postcard" came up. That took me back a few years.....(insert wavy vision and hypnotic music here):
It was some time back, 1993 or so, when the company we both worked for at the time exercised the bad judgment to send two Parrotheads, me and The Hoser, together to a school in Illinois. It was there at our corporate headquarters that we first met The Man. He was the Grand Poobah of all our company's investigators, both U.S. and Canada. He was truly The Man", cutting an impressive figure and holding enough authority in his pinkie finger to make or destroy you with the flick of a Bic. Folks had a tendency to avoid being in the same room with him, and to walk and talk very gingerly when they could not avoid him. Failure in this school, or a screw-up in The Man's presence, could lead to immediate dismissal and relegation to the nether world of unemployment - a place I've never visited (knocking on wood).
Needless to say, when the work days ended in that place, the Hoser and I were looking for some diversion. And where do Parrotheads seek diversion? Duh. In the local pubs, of course. One night, down in the college bar area of town, we had the good fortune to stumble across a busker with a guitar, a bucket, and a head full of tunes by Buffett, Taylor, Morrison, and other of our favorites. This kid, who we learned was Matt Hall, was good. Real good. We chatted him up on breaks, and found that he knew pretty much every song we wanted to hear. So, we fed the bucket, he played, we sang along, got ripped, staggered back to the hotel, and started over again the next evening. Matt would move from bar to bar, and we followed him for a week or so, along with a legion of like-minded folks.
One Friday night, we decided to do it right. Took a bunch of other folks who needed to unwind, found the bar Matt was performing in, and proceeded to really howl at the moon. About the time we all reached that point where you will say anything (really loudly), and stumble over nothing, I heard a gasp from one of our number. His vision was locked on the front door, his mouth agape. We all followed his stare, and there he was:
The Man.
He had just walked into our little comfort zone, his wife at his side. And they weren't alone. Right behind them was another couple, the male side of which we immediately recognized as an even bigger bigshot than The Man - a corporate vice-president.
The air sucked out of the room in their wake. All around us, the party continued as though these people had no freakin' clue that The Man had just entered their presence. The Man spotted us, frowned, and headed our way. We all started doing that thing where you try to convince yourself that you're sober and can handle the situation, breathing deeply, shaking out the cobwebs, all the while knowing you're about to be exposed as a loudmouth, drunken Parrothead. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
As The Man approached, I started thinking through how I should address him.
Oh, man....what do I say? We're off-duty. Can I use his first name? Do I chance that, or should I stick with the more respectful "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Hall????"
Wait a minute....a bell was going off somewhere in my ETOH-addled brain. Mr. Hall, Mr. Hall....Hall.....why was that so familiar? Hall.....
It hit me just as he reached me. He smiled, extended his hand, and said "Are you enjoying my boy's music?"
Matt Hall was The Man's kid. And, as it turned out, The Man was not a bad guy when he was outside the corporate ivory towers. Pretty nice guy, as a matter of fact, who later sent me a couple of free St. Somewhere CDs, after Matt became their lead singer. It was one of those albums that popped up Post Card on my iPod yesterday, and brought this story back to mind.
I've moved on from that company. Matt moved on from St. Somewhere. The Man is probably retired, I don't know. The Hoser is still over there, but he's looking at the light at the end of the tunnel.
But I still enjoy those CDs, and the memories they bring of rowdy bars and good friends. May there be more in the future!
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It was some time back, 1993 or so, when the company we both worked for at the time exercised the bad judgment to send two Parrotheads, me and The Hoser, together to a school in Illinois. It was there at our corporate headquarters that we first met The Man. He was the Grand Poobah of all our company's investigators, both U.S. and Canada. He was truly The Man", cutting an impressive figure and holding enough authority in his pinkie finger to make or destroy you with the flick of a Bic. Folks had a tendency to avoid being in the same room with him, and to walk and talk very gingerly when they could not avoid him. Failure in this school, or a screw-up in The Man's presence, could lead to immediate dismissal and relegation to the nether world of unemployment - a place I've never visited (knocking on wood).
Needless to say, when the work days ended in that place, the Hoser and I were looking for some diversion. And where do Parrotheads seek diversion? Duh. In the local pubs, of course. One night, down in the college bar area of town, we had the good fortune to stumble across a busker with a guitar, a bucket, and a head full of tunes by Buffett, Taylor, Morrison, and other of our favorites. This kid, who we learned was Matt Hall, was good. Real good. We chatted him up on breaks, and found that he knew pretty much every song we wanted to hear. So, we fed the bucket, he played, we sang along, got ripped, staggered back to the hotel, and started over again the next evening. Matt would move from bar to bar, and we followed him for a week or so, along with a legion of like-minded folks.
One Friday night, we decided to do it right. Took a bunch of other folks who needed to unwind, found the bar Matt was performing in, and proceeded to really howl at the moon. About the time we all reached that point where you will say anything (really loudly), and stumble over nothing, I heard a gasp from one of our number. His vision was locked on the front door, his mouth agape. We all followed his stare, and there he was:
The Man.
He had just walked into our little comfort zone, his wife at his side. And they weren't alone. Right behind them was another couple, the male side of which we immediately recognized as an even bigger bigshot than The Man - a corporate vice-president.
The air sucked out of the room in their wake. All around us, the party continued as though these people had no freakin' clue that The Man had just entered their presence. The Man spotted us, frowned, and headed our way. We all started doing that thing where you try to convince yourself that you're sober and can handle the situation, breathing deeply, shaking out the cobwebs, all the while knowing you're about to be exposed as a loudmouth, drunken Parrothead. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
As The Man approached, I started thinking through how I should address him.
Oh, man....what do I say? We're off-duty. Can I use his first name? Do I chance that, or should I stick with the more respectful "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Hall????"
Wait a minute....a bell was going off somewhere in my ETOH-addled brain. Mr. Hall, Mr. Hall....Hall.....why was that so familiar? Hall.....
It hit me just as he reached me. He smiled, extended his hand, and said "Are you enjoying my boy's music?"
Matt Hall was The Man's kid. And, as it turned out, The Man was not a bad guy when he was outside the corporate ivory towers. Pretty nice guy, as a matter of fact, who later sent me a couple of free St. Somewhere CDs, after Matt became their lead singer. It was one of those albums that popped up Post Card on my iPod yesterday, and brought this story back to mind.
I've moved on from that company. Matt moved on from St. Somewhere. The Man is probably retired, I don't know. The Hoser is still over there, but he's looking at the light at the end of the tunnel.
But I still enjoy those CDs, and the memories they bring of rowdy bars and good friends. May there be more in the future!
